From Behind the Templar Helm
by phyreblade
Summary: Series of One-Shots based on various prompt challenges from Cullenites fanpage on Facebook. Will likely jump all over the place, with brief notes beforehand to describe specific prompt for that particular challenge. Every One-Shot will include some take or aspect of the character of Cullen, from Dragon Age series. Rating changed to M, just in case.
1. Chapter 1 -- A New Inquisitor

**The Cullenites fanpage located on Facebook provided various prompts for potential scenes from Dragon Age: Inquisition. Focused on Cullen, of course. Mine turned out to be a purely angsty bit of story-telling, to boot. Plus it came at the story from some very particular twists in the game that I have personally never charted. Sorry but I'm a wimp and I was never able to have a playthrough where Alistair died. But I managed to tear up a couple times in the writing, so I'm hoping I met the needs of the original prompt. Enjoy, guys!  
**

 **Note: I was deliberately vague about the time that's passed between various events. Memories simply don't work like that, I don't think.**

 **Prompt from The Cullenites: "Alistair dies, making the ultimate sacrifice. He and Amell were together. She had planned on making the sacrifice. Later, during Inquisition, Cullen and Trevelyan fall in love, and she dies after the last fight, after defeating Corypheus. Amell and Cullen meet again a few years after."**

* * *

The room was warm enough, for any man who'd grown so accustomed to the climes of the surrounding countryside, at least. And that, despite the snow-covered crags of the mountains that reached up to the skies over the hold. It was summer at Skyhold, but the snow clung tenaciously to the looming mountains and winds whipped down and over the walls of the castle, all the same.

None of it truly bothered Cullen. His soldiers were always quick to laugh, that it was his Fereldan heritage that helped him withstand the cold so much a part of Skyhold. Even If Honnleath seemed so damn far from his experience, now. Or they pointed at his fur-lined mantle, the black hair of the collar that bulged against his neck. Cole still marveled how the fur might be removed, sometimes prodding it at the weirdest moments so that Cullen jumped whenever he suddenly noted the spirit's sudden appearance.

But thoughts of Cole always reminded him of _her_ , too. Because Maegin so adored the spirit, even worked it so that it remained a spirit after she might have made it more human. She only smiled sadly at him when he complained against her choice, telling him, "Ah, Cullen. I'd no more change Cole from what makes him so remarkably unique, than I would ask the grass to become some new color or to make the birds live on the ground instead of flying through the air." He used to wonder if it was the magic trembling deep in her heart, that helped her see things so simply. To find meaning he never was able to wrap his own senses around. He only adored her, rather. And that wasn't enough, either.

So Cullen sighed now and returned his attention to the yawning line of the Eluvian's edge at the far side of the quiet room. Thinking of her hurt so much, anyway. Far simpler to act as guard over the Eluvian, to give his men leave to watch the spectacle outside, rather. This place was more comfortable, much more quiet a place – where he might count the dust motes that drifted through the air, rather than listen to the sounds of the crowd outside, the muffled noise of the people calling and laughing and cheering. What was there to celebrate, for him. But his own failure, his own incapability. To have loved so much, twice over. And both times, to have failed them so utterly.

Cullen sighed, lowered his head and watched the swirling surface of the Eluvian. He ignored the excitement that filled Skyhold. He only watched his reflection, as it moved over the Eluvian's burnished surface of glass. He only watched himself in that copper-colored expanse, the strength in his frame, in every curve of his armor over his chest and arms. Not enough.

Only the sorriest reflections ….

When he caught sight of Catherine that first time.

Of how she laughed, bright bubbles of sound flying up and over her head, peeling out across the library so that the enchanters teaching those excitable youngsters mewled angrily and insisted she quiet herself. "Hush, girl! Make noise enough, and the Templars will think you possessed!" That's what they told her, and he'd mourned her smile that slowly slid from her face, lost in the timid glance she turned towards them where they stood nearby the doorway in all their glittering armors. He missed her smile and her laughter, whenever it was stolen away.

That fear in her eyes was so wrong, made her eyes look so huge in her face. But how her eyes shined at every chance! He had thought her eyes as brilliant golden as the brightest globe of the sun high in the sky, almost barely called brown they were so much light in her face. They were even more beautiful when she smiled, though. They became like droplets of sun-kissed water there at his favorite childhood retreat, nearby his long ago home. His heart raced whenever Catherine smiled, tossing her golden-haired head backwards to send her laughter peeling up towards the sky itself. Because it was one of the only things they couldn't cage of her, she told him once. "My laughter is free, the only thing I can let loose to the whole wide world to know. Unlike me. They'll never really know me, here behind these walls. They won't see me."

But they _did_ see her. All of Fereldan saw her, saw her race over the country to gather them all together. All of them, so many of them. Dwarves and men and elves, all of them. They all saw her, watched her. Followed her, their very own Hero sent to save them from the darkspawn with some mere flick of her fingers. Catherine showed all of them, that magic could help, could comfort and soothe. Could protect them all.

Like it saved him, there where he huddled in a heap under the claws of a demon's torment. He ached now, to remember the way her golden gaze turned copper there in her face. No smiles then, not as he snarled at her from his pitiful position at her feet. How he hated the way she found him, there. So he railed against her magic, against her. Her freakishness, he'd called at her. How ashamed he was, of ever caring … of loving her so much. That's what he told her, that the feelings they shared over so many days and months of whispers there in the library of the Circle tower, of briefest glances and soft brushes of their hands together – what dredge he spewed. What lies. To himself, even more than her. Although he knew good and well she believed him, believed he despised her. It hurt even as he said it, even as he watched the words hit her so that her eyes turned numb and distant and she turned away to bury her face into the shoulder another man offered her.

For the comfort and protection Cullen denied her, of course. He once told Maegin how ashamed he was, of that man he became there in the Circle's fall. But the real shame that trembled in every beat of his heart, was that he failed Catherine that badly. "Heroes likely need more love and care than most, rather. They're the ones who stand to take the hardest blows, so they need the warmest embraces, the loudest cheers, the strongest hands." That's what Cullen admitted to Maegin once, as he helped fasten the buckles that secured her armor over the sweet mounds of her breasts, as he prepared her for battle. He had hoped it was enough. The armor, yes. But the words, even more. That she knew how much he prayed for her safety, how much he cared. Because Cullen was so determined, that this time … this time, the woman he loved so much would _know_ it. She wouldn't enter battle with a heart left bruised and battered by his rejection, his betrayal.

No, his Maegin might fight for him – for them all! - when she stormed off to meet Corypheus that last time. But she carried his heart with her when she went, Cullen made sure of it. He made sure she knew it, too, gripped her close during those last dreadful moments of anxious trepidation there under the green glow of the newly torn breach high above their heads. Cullen whispered with his head tucked down close to her ear, whispered to her, "You are not alone in this fight. I love you, you carry me with you in this battle. And you will come back." He gave her what he'd denied Catherine – an embrace, an admission, and a promise of love and care in the aftermath. That when the battle was done, he would be there waiting for her. That when it was all over, she would have someone to hold onto, someone who'd hold her back.

And the Eluvian's cold copper surface shifted now under Cullen's gaze, wavered harshly in the low light of the afternoon's sun coming in through the high windows behind the mirror. Cullen dropped his head, blinking furiously as he remembered that last image of Catherine. Reflections … of his worst failure. Of watching the Hero of Ferelden, the grand and vaunted Hero – how she lay there in a sad, bloody crumbled heap, there on the shattered stones atop Fort Drakon's tower. How she yelled and wailed, how her dirty, blood-riddled hands grappled over the length of sodden, splattered armor that covered her king's broken form splayed there, dead. How she held him, her arms curled around him so desperately, screamed his name loudly to every fire-bright cloud overhead, pleaded, "Maker, please! Don't! Not like this, not alone like this! Alistair!"

Cullen should have gone to her! Of all the men and women there on top of the tower that terrible night, all of them there! It should've been him who went to her, who held her and comforted her and soothed her. Who showed her she was not alone. He should have …

But he didn't. Still too sorry and too broken in himself, Cullen only watched her collapse and break apart, his hand gripping his sword tight as he waited for her grief to break her into an abomination he would have to destroy. Because isn't that what they all did, all of the mages? They all descended into the most desperate darkness when driven past all endurance, they were all so weak and failed, so why would she be any different? Except that she was. She was the Hero and heroes don't fail, they don't give up or give in, not even to the worst of blows. And that's why Cullen's last image of Catherine was her eyes – those golden eyes of hers all sooty and bereft as they raised up to see him standing there, afraid and uncertain of her strength, and how she climbed woodenly to her feet with her lover lying dead on the stones between them as she just turned stoically away from them all. The Hero of Ferelden, and she only barely stumbled as she walked down from that tower, away from him, from all of them. Alone.

Cullen refused to let any other woman he loved be alone like that, ever again. It's why he held on so fiercely to Maegin when the time came, when she stumbled back to Skyhold to collapse into his arms. "I did come back, love. I did," Maegin whimpered into his throat, and he almost choked out some small laugh as he held her. Cullen tightened his grip around her waist as he lifted her harder against him, carried her into the holding and up the stairs towards her quarters so quickly, so frantic, "You did promise me, right? We're going to make it all right, make it …"

"No, Cullen. It's not going to be all right for me, not this time."

"Shhh, we have so many mages here, Maegin! You'll see!"

"I already know, though. Love …"

They told him later, that it wasn't the wound. Not really, because the thing wasn't so deep or so bloody that it stole her life. It was more a degradation, the foulness of that terrible beast she fought there in the maelstrom that was once a Temple and still teemed with magical power. That monster's dragon, with its filthy claws that somehow left behind some sickness that slowly leached what fantastic life was in Maegin, wasted her away hour by hour, day by day. Until she was gone. Last goodbyes all spoken, whispered comments and tearful hugs to all of them, and the sweetest caresses there along his brow as she told him her hopes. How much she hoped! That they would all fight even harder, to repair the damage, heal the wounds made to all of the people. "Help them, show them! That there's a way! That they're not alone!" Frantic scribbles onto parchment notes, to allies and friends alike. And to the Heroes so desperately needed right then, with the Inquisition only barely victorious and its leader dying.

But every night, every single blessed night he had with her before she finally breathed out one more time, Maegin would look up at him from under a brow made damp with sweat and fatigue and gnawing pain. And she would tell him, "I won't be here. But it's not because I didn't love you with every beat of my heart. I always … will." Every night, until she wasn't hurting anymore and he was left as alone as he'd once left Catherine. Not that anyone of them blamed him when Cullen cried over her wasted form on the bed, when he held her and cried her name into the sweat-stained covers they'd draped over her at the very end.

Maegin Trevelyan, the Inquisitor. The Herald of Andraste. And she was gone. They placed a single stone there in the garden nearby her favorite place to relax that marked her name in this place she'd made her own. Oh, there were statues erected in those places where she'd fought and battled. But Cullen appreciated that simple stone far more, near where their chess matches unfolded, where she first whispered to him her feelings, her hopes. There was no cheering of her name, no calling out of her deeds and accomplishments that quite matched the understated depth of that rock there in the Skyhold garden. So he remained at the stone, rather, and he waited. The work kept him occupied, kept him from thinking and remembering. It helped, that there was so much to do, so many soldiers to train, so many determined to help, to fight alongside them as they worked to rebuild what Corypheus had broken.

And today at long last Skyhold rang out with cheers and celebration, as they all welcomed their new Inquisitor, their very own Hero all over again. But he was still too much a coward to face her, and he retreated here to hide behind the Eluvian's reflections, rather. Hid alone from his own failure and his own fear …

But Catherine never did allow him to hide from her. Not even from the first. It was Catherine who bravely lifted the faceplate of his helmet away from his face that first night, fought past all of her fears and anxious worries to ask him. Only his name, that time. His brave little mage, her soft voice that trembled against the dark shadows as she stepped closer to him. Like a deer facing a potential hunter in the field and wary, her arms all wrapped around her robed torso as she stepped forward and reached for his faceplate. "Hello … I'm called Catherine. Catherine Amell. What is … your name?" Seeing her for the first time with no barrier to divide them was a stunning thing, and he'd stared at her for the longest time before finally giving her what she asked of him. That's when she smiled again, when she smiled at _him_ for the first time. When she refused to let them be separated by anything so much as a piece of armor and certainly not the titles of mage and Templar. No, she'd just looked up at him, smiling, and she said his name. Said it _now_ and startled him from his preoccupation.

"Cullen."

Cullen's breath caught, his eyes narrowed softly as he caught sight of her reflection there in the Eluvian behind him, and he sighed as he shifted. He would have turned to meet her, except Catherine stepped up to stand alongside him. Here, in the rooms of Skyhold where she'd come to take on the title of Inquisitor, where they'd finally managed to wash from her whatever once marked her as Grey Warden – here she wasn't so wary as that long ago night, she didn't shake and she didn't tremble. She was bold and honest, her shoulder only barely brushing against the furred lining of his mantle as she stepped forward to stand next to him and stare at the Eluvian as he did. Watching her from the corner of his eye, Cullen could see nothing that reminded him of the shattered girl-woman who lost her lover to an Archdemon's terrible magic. He only saw the strength that made them all call her Hero.

Then Catherine moved again and he could see the long line of her back as she continued watching the Eluvian. The thick armored pieces covering her were far different from the robes she wore to battle an Archdemon. These were more fluid, designed to allow her more mobility. Her legs were covered in trousered lengths of leather that ended in thick-soled boots fronted with toughest onyx. Onyx composed the plate that covered her chest, too. And circled both her forearms. Everything was marked with the symbols of the Inquisition, with flames and a fiery-backed sword there on Catherine's chestplate. All golden and gleaming, like the fall of her thick, golden-blonde braid that descended down the center of her back. Catherine reached out suddenly, with a single gloved finger to stroke along the edge of the Eluvian, "I remember this. I'm surprised Morrigan would leave it behind, actually. I barely discovered her in time as I recall, she was so intent on retrieving the thing. And she fled through it so quickly, too."

Cullen frowned, "I didn't know you were familiar with Morrigan, actually."

Catherine glanced at him from over her shoulder. There was only some small hint of amusement on her face, her eyes even twinkled so softly with the memories. "She would argue terribly with Leliana and Alistair, until she finally took up the habit of setting her tent as far from our camp as she might without outright making her own. Morrigan told me once, that she didn't know any real way to be someone's friend. She snarled at me when I called it fearfulness, that she kept people at a distance to keep from being disappointed somehow." She turned around to face him again, her entire form framed by the breadth and power of the Eluvian behind her. And Cullen felt his breath catch, as the dull light of the late afternoon caught against Catherine's blonde tresses and brought her to a brilliant, gleaming gold shimmer. She looked right then like some goddess descended from a heavenly place, born out of the Fade and the Eluvian's place, even, something magical and extraordinary.

But Catherine only gazed at him with sad brown eyes, the pale blonde of her head leaned sideways as she studied him. "We were once friends, at the least. Do you remember, Cullen? I sometimes think it's halfway gone, like a dream I had once upon a time and hardly even real. But still. When they told me you were here … They told me how sad you've been, and why. I'm sorry, Cullen. So sorry." Catherine's breath hitched there in her throat and she dropped her gaze down towards the floor. She paused, seeming to gather herself. "Do you think we can … well, we should be able to work together, I suppose."

Cullen inhaled slowly, regretful all over again as he missed the brave girl who once reached for his faceplate. To prove to herself there was a real man under all the Templar armor, of course. To face her greatest fear in that moment. That he'd lost her, that she was so uncertain standing there in front of him now – Cullen felt his chest tighten with fear at the thought. But he wasn't that fumbling Templar anymore. He was no boy-man trying to learn what it meant, to be a Knight and a hero. Not anymore. So Cullen lifted his chin, straightened his shoulders so that his chest went higher and his armor gleamed even brighter there in the low light of the sun setting outside. He reached his hands out, cupping her shoulders between the spread of his gloved fingers, and he watched her eyes widen there in her face, her lips part with startled surprise. And he told her, "You are not alone in this world, Catherine Amell. You haven't been since the first time you really _saw_ me."

There it was, Cullen thought. He watched as the smile moved from her eyes to her mouth, watched her lips part and spread with that peculiar hint of magical laughter that was so much _her_ , and then she stepped close enough to lay her forehead against the cold chestplate that covered him in the front. Catherine's arms stretched out, then, and they waited there together. They only held onto each other. Just waiting. Just patient and calm, at the last. Two people, who lost their way, stumbled down dark ways and paths and battles beyond number. Until they stopped together in a room so far from where they'd started.


	2. Chapter 2 -- A bit of Pink

**Latest prompt from the Cullenites: "** **Gather round, all, for our first mystery item challenge! You get one random item, and one random color that must be included somewhere in your fic! For this challenge, our darling Commander MUST be included somewhere. This is a SPEED challenge, meaning you have one week (unless other circumstances arise). And now,without further ado, your assignments! Phyreblade's item is "wagon" and color is "hot pink"."**

 **This turned out far more brief than I wanted. I actually considered taking this in a far more angsty direction, I mean, which would've diverted strongly from the original prompt challenge to include what I consider my canon Inquisition story. But I settled at last on a brief interjection. Just a short little note to describe Cullen and Catherine's warming to each other all over again. Hope the growing friendship and warmth, here, is enough for now at least. Thanks, all!**

* * *

Cullen bounded down the steps from the Tower where he kept his quarters and office, rushing fast enough the fur lining of his armor flew up to tickle the back of his neck. Just behind him, the soldier who acted as his aide was chattering in that warbled tone that always amused him. Maybe because his aide only ever seemed to interrupt Cullen's more private moments, even bursting into the Chapel when Cullen tried celebrating his prayers on occasion.

That the same fellow had routinely offended those brief moments he tried catching Maegin in more romantic interludes was perhaps why Cullen appreciated him, now. Poor Justin's tone always reminded Cullen of his lost love, anyway. Maegin herself never failed to chuckle when she caught sight of the young aide, even patting him on the shoulder on several different occasions to thank him for his "regular assistance". She'd always been keen to laugh, his Maegin.

Regardless, Justin was huffing now as they moved quickly towards Skyhold's courtyard, "We're not certain what the purpose of the attacks were, though, commander. We're assuming it's little more than banditry, considering the ever-growing wealth that Skyhold represents. That, and how many merchants and workers are moving trade goods and materials along the roadways as the village outside continues growing can only tempt them, I would think …"

Cullen grunted occasionally. Mostly to let Justin know he truly was listening, out of politeness, if you will. His mind was far more on what actions to take, that might increase the safety of the road, though. Maegin had established the road during the battles with Corypheus. But there was no way the passageway could successfully remain hidden forever. Especially not when the Inquisition's soldiers used it so well during the conflict. And of course it had been discovered by someone enterprising enough to take advantage of the growing presence of the Inquisition in the mountain passes that overlooked Fereldan.

Perhaps they anticipated a tepid response, given the Inquisition's new leader, too. That would be foolish in the extreme, though. Catherine Amell didn't hesitate to take on a blasted Archdemon. And all its blighted darkspawn, too. She'd hardly blink at breaking to pieces a bunch of bandits harassing her hold's supply lines.

It's why Cullen was anticipating the report he'd make to Catherine after he assured the oncoming train of wagons was secured as he finally emerged out into the courtyard and looked towards the gates. Then he mentally castigated himself for thinking of the new Inquisitor with such familiarity. It wouldn't do, to inadvertently use her familiar name in company. Few people really knew of his history with the Inquisition's new leader, that he'd been a Templar in her Circle, there to watch over her during her own Harrowing. Not for him to tell anyone at all how much brightness she provided his memories of that time and place …

Cullen forced his mind back to the present when the wagons finally appeared down the long bridge leading to Skyhold's main hold. Then he sighed long enough Justin shrank back from him, as if he were afraid Cullen would turn some kind of ire-filled glanced his way. Which very nearly earned him precisely that much a keen glance of displeasure, if only because Cullen was not the sort of leader to give criticism unless it was well-earned. As a rule, anyway. And Justin had done nothing that made for merchants' wagons be pock-marked with arrows and splintered wood and barely moving along. But Cullen bit back his frustration at Justin's temerity, only remarking sideways, "At least our Soldiers provided security enough the wagons were still able to move. We'll have to consider clearing the road of bandits, increase our patrols …" Justin wrote frantically in the notebook he carried with him so faithfully. Cullen had considered asking Josephine to provide Justin his own writing board, but he feared being splattered by wax from any candles attached to the thing as Justin went about chasing after him.

Cullen lifted his chin as the first of the wagons rolled into the courtyard and circled around easily enough to make room for the others, until Cullen had to retreat to the nearby stairs leading to the upper courtyard rather than be squashed under the wagon wheels. He pursed his lips into a thin line as he watched Kirsa Cadash leaping down from the back-end of one of the wagons and wave cheerfully towards him. Kirsa's zest for anything crazily amusing normally involved seeing what she might do to needle Cullen's sense of propriety. He made a mental note to keep Sera as far from Kirsa and anything she might have discovered in the back of that wagon. Cullen rarely fared well when the dwarf woman and the elf archer managed to pair up long enough to craft some new and innovative prank together. He was one of their favorite targets, apparently.

Kirsa waved at him, "Hey, Cullen! Did you come all the way down here, just to thank me for helping out your Soldier boys? Don't worry about it, I mean. I was bored as shit, until I heard they were heading out to secure the wagons bringing up missus Bonny's prettier stuffs." Cullen tried to interject some comment but the dwarf easily bowled her way straight through any conversation he might have included. "Just saying, you should pull rank fast enough to stick your nose through to the back of the wagon. Some of that stuff's worth grabbing hold of … I'm going to mention it to Bull, I mean! Bonny's managed to locate a new bow, one that's even better than Sera's, if you can believe _that_! I'll see you later, then!" Cullen watched her bounce away, her bright red head bobbing happily as she darted past Cullen, nearly knocking Justin over in the process. Justin stared after her, bemused. But Cullen was only grateful the tiny woman would be ensconced in Bull's quarters for much of the next day or two, rather than forcing him to look over his office for any potential booby-trapped pranks constantly.

"That female has way too much energy for any living creature. Hope she manages the means to burn it off without killing someone," remarked the dwarf wagon-driver shaking his head as he watched Kirsa rushing up the stairs. The stocky fellow actually seemed stunned, more than anything. A state of mind Cullen could appreciate, given he himself lived at Skyhold and endured Kirsa and Sera together and every day. So he smiled at the man.

"I'll warn Mistress Sims, rather. If Kirsa is taken with some of her newest goods, I mean." Cullen waved his hand towards the broken back-end of the wagon, the splintered tail of the transport barely hanging onto the back. It was most likely the reason the dwarf woman had been ensconced in the wagon, to maintain hold enough on to keep whatever goods were inside from falling out of the wagon's rear side. "You require assistance, then?"

The dwarf watched Cullen shrug off his mantle before striding towards the wagon resolutely. Justin scampered behind him, catching Cullen's gear as the commander handed it backwards before leaping up into the wagon to begin lifting crates from the inside out to the Soldiers rushing forward to assist. It wasn't long before a line formed to handle the supplies in neat and precise order, with Skyhold's merchants and workers watching approvingly from the nearby walls as their goods were deposited in proper storage. Cullen was pleased with the afternoon's work, his bare shoulders gleaming as he finished his work and looked down towards the last crate. The thing must have been stacked towards the farthest end of the wagon, nearby where the transport took the hardest hit from an attack. Because the wood of the crate was in total pieces and the goods spilled across the floor of the wagon.

Fabrics. Bolts of fabrics lay in bundled heaps against the floor, some of them with torn and ragged edges now. Obviously shoved as much into the shattered crate as possible, the bolts would still bring Mistress Sims a goodly sum to some of the locals who looked for good wools and samites when they created clothes for the harsh climes of the high mountain hold and growing village just outside. Cullen stacked them carefully, trying to keep from marking the fabric with any of the grime and sweat that covered him after the afternoon's work. But Cullen's breath caught when he noted the color of one single bolt, the fine feel of dales loden wool that almost shined with brilliant wash of pink so bright it very nearly hurt his eyes. It was like the pink you saw in the last incredible gasp of a setting sun, so much blazing it looked almost hot and radiant. It even had flowers embossed all along the length of fabric, its entire surface a heated pink of the softest roses his fingers itched to smooth over.

And he remembered. Not pink like this, but softer. Hidden washes of pink flowers embroidered against the gorgeous line of a pretty kirtle, to be worn under an apprentice's robes and hidden from the other young mages. The argument that rose up against the still and cold walls of the apprentice's barracks rooms, several female voices arguing who's kirtle it was and there was Catherine, her golden eyes shimmering as her fingers gripped one edge of the kirtle and held tight. "Leave off, Staria. You wouldn't be able to put such a design of your own making onto the fabric, if you tried forever! The thing's mine!" But Greghoir demanded they make peace and the fabric was taken away from them all, whether Catherine assured him it was her "most favorite color" or not. Pretty things that made for disputes among the mages were simply denied and removed entirely.

But Cullen ached at the sadness in Catherine's eyes, at the loss of some small thing which she'd made and liked. A petty thing, small and meaningless really. He only hated that it wasn't allowed her, when she was already struggling to find and make whatever small pleasure she could, there in the Tower. It's why Catherine discovered a small length of pink ribbon tucked under her pillow several days later, a perfect piece of rose-colored fabric. The prettiest piece of pink ribbon he could find and small enough she was able to tuck it into one of the folds in her robes, and while he never told her it was some small gift from him, the smile she eased towards him the day after finding it assured him she knew the truth.

Catherine carried that ribbon into her Harrowing. He was the one who found it in her clenched fist afterwards, as he eased her unconscious form into her barracks bed and smoothed her into a comfortable position.

"Commander! Cullen … Ser Cullen, serrah!" Cullen ducked his head at the sudden call for his attention, staring out towards the statuesque frame of Mistress Bonny Sims standing nearly on her toes as she strained to catch sight of him inside the wagon. He spun out from the wagon, leaping easily down before moving towards Mistress Sims with the bolts of fabric piled neatly in his arms. She was smiling wide as he approached, her arms outstretched for the materials. But Cullen tapped the bolt of brilliant pink wool.

"Mistress Sims, this cloth. If you will …"

* * *

Justin handed Cullen the note several days after the wagons returned under escort to the coast and the port the Inquisition had built, there. Justin leaned his head sideways as Cullen read the note and laughed. It was unusual for the commander to laugh. Justin rather supposed Commander Cullen simply didn't have reason enough to laugh, as a rule. That he laughed today sparked Justin's curiosity more than any words he could say. So when the commander turned to bark some commands towards the other Soldiers in the room, Justin glanced at the note from the new Inquisitor and frowned with brief bewilderment.

The note read, "This is far too much pink to hide out of sight, though!"


	3. Chapter 3 -- In Some Other World

**A different sort of prompt this time around, guys.**

 **From the Fellowship of the Cullenites Writers: "The Time Warp Challenge is here, writers! Remember, all fics will be set in the same universe, same time period! Your goal: each of you will get a scene, and together, the writers will craft a series of snapshots of just what Inquisition would have looked like in this era. Without further ado, here we go... The dice is cast, and the decade chosen is... the 1930s! "It is the 1930s. Ferelden is in the midst of the Great Depression, with poverty spread across the southern country and her sister nation, Orlais. Prohibition has driven taverns underground, and bootleggers and gangsters run rampant, constantly at war with the underfunded police and detectives struggling to keep control. Into this world comes Evelyn Trevelyan, who-with only her wits and skills-must defuse the tension between factions and gather allies to take down the most powerful criminal gang ever known, run by a boss known only as The First, who has his hands in everything from slavery and politics, to the smuggling of a dangerous new form of lyrium that junkies call the Red. It's a good thing she's got her friends, including the mysterious, golden-eyed detective named Cullen: a man with a voice that burns like smoke and a closer connection to lyrium than most. What's a girl to do?"**

 **My own specific scene was Halamshiral.**

 **I struggled mightily, just to wrap my head around this. Until finally settling on some notion of a completely alternate history of our own world, rather than stick faithfully to the original prompt. Mainly because I'm really trying to keep my prompts flowing in one seamless tale, here. And I couldn't figure any other way, but this one. Forgive me, Cullenites, lol! So in this utterly insane idea that swirled in my head (and so I don't totally confuse the crap out of all of you, btw):**

 **(1) This is our own world, so geographical terms are our own. That being said, it's a totally alternate history of our own world. France is still an Empire, as are other European nations. Elves were the natives of the Americas when the Europeans began spreading their empires across the Globe. The Qun and the Qunari are native to the countries and lands of North Africa.**  
 **(2) The Church is the Chantry's equivalent, but magic remains a real force and presence in the world. The Templar Order and its Seekers were formed to provide safeguards against untamed and misused magic.**  
 **(3) The Plague is the Blight's equivalent, and several terrible Plagues have occurred over the course of known history. Mages and Wardens in countries around the world combat the Plagues when they appear. Think Zombie invasions from Hell, basically.**

 **Finally, this particular episode is totally NSFW. So please do NOT read this at work or other unsafe-for-public-consumption venue.**

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Cullen bit back yet another sigh as one of the endless rounds of masked women crowded him up against the table yet again. This one went so far as rubbing the filmy lace of her bodice against the tucked lapels of his white tuxedo jacket, even. Right before whispering an invitation to "visit the gardens" into his ear, no less.

"No. Thank you." He bit the words out this time, barely keeping his temper in check as her mouth twisted into a sour pout under the line of her mask. The black and white Harlequin of her mask mocked him with pretended humor, at least. Then she tittered some kind of laughing sound as she _bounced_ back towards her companions. Cullen returned his attention to the dance floor, where the colors of purple and gold seemed so prevalent a force among the whirling figures.

He was actually surprised there weren't feathers flying and floating through the air in more vivid swirls, considering the absolute multitude of masquerade masks and beads out there on the floor. The raucous tunes from a saxophone took over suddenly, the sultry voice of the Jazz singer lilting to a close as the dancers broke into a flamboyant rendition of the new dance they were calling Big Apple.

Cullen stood watching them with a slight upturn of his lips, entertained as much by the brightness and gaiety of the scene as he was trying to ignore what seemed an ever-present mob of giggling ladies and not some few men of similar ilk. He wasn't certain what titillated them so much, even if they did continue to sing practically over the scar marring his upper lip and the brash curl of his blonde hair against the nape of his neck. Cullen was far less than amused by their fascination with such paltry details.

Perhaps he should bother them all with the details of how he'd earned the cut to his lip, the single clip of a blade's sharpest point in the middle of the battle alongside the Champion. The horror of that night, when he watched his Commander fall into utter madness and realized he might have stopped her so much sooner, should have stopped her. When he'd finally realized how badly he had failed, rather.

Which carried him to this particular night, where the Inquisition focused on saving the lot of them all from descending into yet another war through the assassination of the French Empire's visiting ruler to this distant city of New Orleans. The capital of France's American territories, New Orleans was a bustling city, rife with such distinctive flavors and music. The plantation house hosting this night's festivities had pulled out every shining example of creole sensation and experience. Even the walls of Halamshiral were decked in rich fabrics marked with vividly embroidered fleur-de-lis, mind you.

Cullen was fairly certain the old plantation's owners would boast and brag of this night's festivities for the next dozen years or more, as the crowd of the most wealthy nabobs of New Orleans society crowded its floors and hallways. Their loud creole accents and fashions – the vivid colors of Mardi Gras that marked the season – all of it added into a wild milieu of sound and color that was almost overwhelming. And dangerous, to boot.

As the Inquisitor had remarked right before they were presented in front of Celene, earlier in the night, "What better backdrop for an assassination? Everyone is already hiding behind those pretty masks, even!" She only smiled tightly before descending the stairs towards the wide floor below, though. They were all well aware who was there at the gathering, that most bore watching.

 _Speaking of which_ , Cullen thought when he was called on so loudly suddenly. He turned crisply towards the newcomer, his smile well-made on his upturned chin as he nodded towards the Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons.

"Ah, Commander Cullen!" Duke Gaspard could never be called some sing-song admirer, akin to the hangers-on who persisted in trailing Cullen around the ballroom. The Duke was regaled in a heavy uniform marking him a seasoned veteran of the Empire's legions, in fact. Cullen admired the cut of the military jacket, before raising an eyebrow towards the man. Duke Gaspard chuckled, "I was curious, to meet the man leading the Inquisition's fighting men and women. You're Templar-trained, I'm told. Tragedy, what happened to your Order. But gratifying that the Inquisition saved so many of them."

Cullen's ready smile faltered, as he recalled the fate of so many Templars. Mislead and betrayed into the clutches of a madman, intent on returning the whole of eastern Europe into some far-flung past glory of Empire. As if Rome could ever be again what it once was, ever again rule the entirety of the world itself. The Church should've managed to stop Corypheus, long before the Lord Seeker seized control of the Order and forced its Knights into corruption through pain and torture, forced them to down poison that ruined and broke them.

Black Friday, they'd come to call the day. Cullen imagined the thirteenth Friday of any month would forever be synonymous with ill will and the most dire fates. No, this gathering - no matter how polite and pretty - was just another battleground, Cullen thought. So he inclined his head sideways, contemplating the Duke and wondering at his game. Cullen remarked idly enough, "The Inquisitor was able to preserve many valuable Templars, I'm glad to say. They work tirelessly to bring renewed security throughout the region." The war between the Mages and Templars had ravaged the lands of Europe and its American territories for too long, almost catching the fledgling American States into still more chaos when they were still recovering from the last Plague. Saving the Templars still unbroken from Corypheus' corrupt influence at Therinfal proved a remarkable feat, in fact.

There were more giggles from the milling crowd of admirers nearby all of a sudden, and Cullen glanced towards them. That's why he caught sight of the Iron Bull's horns moving through the crowd just then. He frowned, since there really was no reason for Bull to approach him right then. Why wasn't the hulking-framed detective with the Inquisitor, as he belonged? That's what his group of Pinkertons were hired for, to provide security for the Inquisition whenever needed.

Cullen mumbled towards the Duke, "Excuse me, my lord Duke. I must attend to some business." And then he walked towards Bull abruptly, so sharply he left Duke Gaspard gaping at his back. Josephine would surely scold him soundly for the rudeness. But Cullen was past caring, as he strode towards Bull quickly. His stomach knotted even more when he realized Bull was hesitant to discuss anything there in the crowded ballroom and was drawing him through the doors, rather.

"What's wrong?" Cullen spoke low. But his tone was sharp and worried. Except Bull only grabbed his arm and took to pulling him along, grunting hurriedly that they needed to hurry. Hurry where, Cullen wondered. But the Iron Bull's big body seemed to be humming with tension, utterly alien to Bull's normal jovial tendencies. Even being cast into exile by his Qun masters in his homeland of North Africa hadn't managed to reduce Iron Bull to this mess of anxious concern, until he was almost clutching Cullen's elbow in his big, gray hand and quite literally pulling him along the way and through some wide terrace doors into the gardens.

Iron Bull finally muttered once they were outside, "So yea. Something of a fucking mess, now. Seems the Inquisitor's been socked with some kind of potion. And need you fixing it right up."

"Potion? She's been poisoned? Is it more of the Red Corruption?" Cullen was almost running along the brick-lined paths of the gardens by now. His mind swirled with the most terrible possibilities, having seen any number of potentially deadly potions throughout the years. The entire Templar Order had been nearly destroyed, by magically enhancing the potions they used to harness their abilities. If Catherine had been forced to ingest that potion …

"No. It wasn't that shit, at least." Iron Bull yanked Cullen around the last bend of corner, so they could see the gathered group of Inquisition people outside a small building set apart from the regular plantation house. But no Inquisitor, and where was she, Cullen wondered. Bull remarked, "Hell, maybe they only thought it would be funny. Who the fuck knows, really."

Cullen pulled his arm loose from Bull's rough hold, rushing forward on his own to meet Cassandra and demand loudly, "What's happened?" And then Cassandra blushed, looking at him. Cullen frowned at her darkly. "What is it, then?"

Solas cleared his throat, and Cullen looked over Cassandra's shoulder at the Elven mage. Solas had apparently donned his armor pieces to traipse after the Inquisitor during her forays through the plantation grounds in hunting for the assassin, and looked quite as sharp and straight standing there as any one of the ancient Elves likely looked when they first met humans coming to the Americas. He certainly didn't appear like any one of the Elves so accustomed to subservience in the eons since then, at least.

And Solas' tone was just as matter-of-fact as his appearance, too. "The Inquisitor has apparently ingested some potion designed to induce her into a sexual frenzy. And we lack the time to create any kind of counter-acting potion that might alleviate her distress." Cullen was rather grateful for the brevity of his explanation. Only because it hit him hard and fast, rather than leave him bumbling through a myriad number of questions that would most likely embarrassed him to no end before he was done.

So he focused on the most pressing issues. "She's hurting? How long-lasting is this …? Was anyone else made aware?"

Cassandra adopted a similarly business-like approach to the whole situation. In some better moments, Cullen might have found her deliberate attempt at creating a poker face rather amusing. But he was likely blushing just as strongly, could feel the upper curves of his ears burning red as they stood there outside the small guest-cottage. Cassandra explained to him, "It's quite obviously painful, or we wouldn't have retreated here. Solas is certain it only requires … attentions, before passing harmlessly enough. And we only looked for you, Cullen. She trusts you, has history with you. No one else knows we're out here, even."

Cullen straightened, looking over his shoulder. Iron Bull was standing with his back towards them, deliberately watching the gardens for anyone foolish enough to try approaching the small cottage. He might as well have announced his respect for the Inquisitor's privacy, as much as could be retained right then. And Cullen wanted to spit against the insult, that anyone would have done such a thing to her. It made him want to march straight back to the ballroom and rail against the lot of curtsying never-do-wells in that room, with all their pitiful smirks and snide commentary and snobbish pretentiousness.

But she needed him, here. Cullen looked back at Cassandra, watching from the corner of his eye as Solas moved to join Bull's careful distance from the cottage itself. He turned to face the door, then, and he stepped to it quickly. Cullen ignored Cassandra's mumbled assurances, just opened the door and stepped inside the small cottage as quickly as he could. He shut and locked the door behind him, finding her across the room with his gaze as he drew in several slow breaths.

Catherine was already naked. Her pale skin was dewy with perspiration, as she huddled on the plush expanse of rug in front of the fireplace set into the far wall. Her golden hair fell in damp tendrils against the soft length of her back as she rocked back and forth in a ball, her arms wrapped around her knees pulled up to obscure her chest. And she didn't look at him as she whimpered, "I want to leave here, I don't want …" She shuddered suddenly and gasped.

Cullen rasped, looking back at the door as he wondered if it were better for her he retreated back outside. "Would you rather … Catherine, if you want, I'll take you out of here. There's potions to make you sleep. So we don't have to do this."

She looked over at him, then, and he inhaled sharply. Her eyes looked misty and golden brown with unshed tears and he thought she looked more beautiful than he had ever known any woman could ever be, and how could he be so much wanting her when the entire situation was so terrible and unfair to her. Catherine rocked herself again, watching him, "You know that's not possible, Cullen."

Cullen scowled. "Of course it is. To Hell with every one of them, let Celene herself rot. Gaspard would make a decent-enough Emperor, anyway. The only one here who's truly important to me is _you_ , Catherine."

Catherine warbled a wet-sounding laugh. "You know. It's quite awful, that I had to reach this sorry state before you said that to me again, Cullen. When I'm feeling better again, I'll take you to task for the oversight."

For a moment, Cullen wondered blindly when he'd ever said such a thing similar. Then he remembered, when he'd guided Catherine up the stairwell to her quarters so she might retrieve the brief items that belonged to her. With Duncan waiting down below, to take her off to battle the Plague in the States. And she was trembling, frightened at leaving behind everything she really knew there at the Circle Tower overlooking the lake Michigan. So he'd told her how he could take her somewhere far away, because one more Mage couldn't necessarily be so much more important. " _You're worth so much more to me, than that_."

Now Cullen sighed, remembering how she refused him then, too. "No, you don't back down from anything. It's not in your nature, Catherine." Cullen shrugged his jacket off, hanging it on the back of the nearby chair. Catherine watched him, her entire body trembling and shaking. There was beads of sweat against her upper lip and her fingers were digging into the skin of her knees hard enough the nails left moon-shaped marks in the skin, there. But she waited, watching as he undressed, as he bared himself just as much as she was naked.

"But do _you_ want … Cullen?" Catherine's voice shook as she returned to rocking herself, fighting the effects of the magic on her body. Cullen didn't answer. He pretty much stopped talking, then. Mostly because there were no words enough. And because his own body couldn't really hide his own wants right then. Why embarrass himself so much further, than actually say he'd never _stopped_ wanting her? That even this moment, this awful scene wasn't enough to keep him from wanting everything of her?

He only moved to her quickly, knelt down to lift her arms from around her. Catherine whimpered as he bared her completely, glanced down the front of her over the trembling length of her body to the taut muscles of her tummy and her flushed breasts that shook slightly under his burning gaze. Cullen settled himself, sitting in front of her on the rug before reaching under both her knees to yank her thighs up and over his own. Catherine gasped, her hands flailing up to grasp Cullen's shoulders as he lifted her up until she was sitting firmly in his lap and her legs were splayed wide around his hips.

"Hold onto me, Catherine. This first bit will be quick, to ease you." Cullen mumbled, smoothing his lips against her shaking temple, nudged the damp wash of her blonde hair back from her face to dust brief kisses down the side of her face.

Catherine reached her legs around him, locking her feet together against the small of his back. She whimpered, "First bit?"

Cullen grunted as he felt the hot wetness of her core against his hard length, as he nuzzled her opening with its head. As he started broaching inside of her with the briefest pushes. "Damn me, if I leave this at the basest level. I'm going to _please_ you, Catherine." Then Cullen leaned backwards, pulling her with him until she was resting fully against his chest. He braced his feet slightly apart, using the position to push up inside of her all the way. Catherine mewled as he started moving into her, holding her hips so that he could yank her down onto him even harder. He moved fast, fast and Catherine buried her face against his throat as he started groaning, pushing himself, pushing.

Catherine felt the tingling pulses of orgasm rush up along her spine, tingling through to the soles of her feet so that her toes felt like tiny stars were lighting under her skin and her entire length felt like a blazing fire of want and desire. She shook against him, sobbed against his neck and shivered wildly. Cullen held her, still and unmoving except for his hands that ran down her back in smooth, steady motions, soothing, soothing. And accepting every bit of her pleasure.

She settled into him, felt the pain falling away so slowly. New tears formed against her closed eyelids, as Catherine warmed herself against his heart, felt the hard push of his heart beating against her own. Cullen hummed, "Hush, Catherine." Only then did he move, pushing them both up until they were sitting straight and he could hug her against him for several long moments while the trembling length of her form eased.

Then Cullen shifted to lay her back onto the rug, slipping out her as he stretched out over her and leaned down to catch her mouth with his lips, pull her into the kiss she'd missed for so long a time. Their tongues tangled together, danced against each other. Then he pulled back, just enough to nuzzle her chin with his nose and run his lips down along her throat and neck, over the swell of her collarbone towards her breasts.

Cullen yanked her nipple into his mouth, pulled on it with desperate pulls of his tongue. She tasted decadent, like a piece of fruit. Like something sweetly forbidden, from some far-off land he only dreamed of and wanted and desired to have for his own again. He ran his tongue in a wide circle down under her breast, caught the sensitive skin there, and he cupped her other breast to tweak and pull that other nipple between his fingers. Until Catherine writhed in a pleasure-filled haze underneath him and soft keening moans were slipping helplessly from her.

That's when he dragged himself further down, trailing nibbling, suckling kisses over the softness of her belly and the sensitive button in its center. Catherine held his shoulders, pushed him and felt him smiling against her skin as he swirled his tongue in ghosting whirls over the gentle curls covering the top of her mound.

Catherine hitched a crying sound as Cullen finally sank his tongue past the lips of her sex, lapped against her pretty little nub and swirled over her all the way down over her silken slit. He reached both hands behind her to cup her buttocks and raise her up against his mouth, drew on her warmth and wetness and molded her with his tongue and lips.

Catherine felt the gathering tightness yet again, felt herself helplessly press her lower body up, up against his mouth, her thighs trembling against both sides of his head. Felt him laving her, licking her and scorching every bit of her senses as he savored her. Catherine flung her arms out, so her fingers could clutch at the rug hard and desperate as the release rippled through her again, seized her up and shivered through her and she couldn't do anything more than moan and arch against him, satisfied, exhulting.

Then Cullen reared up, his eyes molten as he kneeled in front of her and circled her waist with his big warrior's hands. He raised her up and over her, holding her steady as he pushed himself back inside of her and groaned loudly. Cullen bucked and pushed himself against her, rocking himself into the velvet folds so wet against him. He rolled his hips, surged into her almost desperately hard. Thrusting, thrusting, until he could feel his scrotum tightening and pulling, the rising thrill of impending orgasm and he threw his head back as the burst of pleasure washed over his senses and pulsed in maddening rapture. He thrust once, again, again, as his orgasm gathered and flowed in rasping pulses.

Cullen caught himself before he fell completely forward onto her, braced himself on both taut arms along either side of her shoulders. He shook and trembled against her, locked against her as he quaked and melted into her. Catherine's hands meandered and kneaded over the muscled length of his chest, eased his excitement into a calming, glowing calm. And then … Then …

Cullen woke up with a loud, wild gasp, sitting up in the bed with all his covers tangled around his legs testament to his rough, uncontrolled motions through the dreaming. There was no more hole in the ceiling over the long line of his bed, although the window set in the corner was wide open to allow for the chilled air of the mountains outside to drift inside. Moonlight stretched across the boards of the wooden floor, tickled the foot board of the big bed. All of it proof there was nothing to the experience, more than a dream. A brief, crazy dream. A place far distant, a world he didn't know or understand, faces and names so much different than the actual experience. And all of it left him dazed, confused. Drenched in his own sweat, and wondering when it was he'd lost himself to maddening dreams like a stripling boy again.

* * *

 **Some minor historical notes, for those who are interested.**

 **(1) The Big Apple was a popular dance during the 1930's. It originated in the South Carolina region, in the Black community at first. But it quickly became popular with Whites, as well, like many other dances of the era. It was particularly popular and spread across the USA. The dance consisted of individual Jazz steps, with dancers all gathered in a circle as a leader called out the moves from nearby.**

 **(2) Black Friday was the term applied to the original Friday the 13th, the day on which King Phillip IV of France enacted arrests and imprisonment of members of the Templar Order across his country in the year 1307. The Templars were arrested and tortured brutally until they confessed to heinous and blasphemous crimes against the faith and the Church. Phillip intended to use their confessions to justify seizing the substantial wealth and holdings of the Templars in France. But while he was successful in coercing the Pope Clement V into taking action to disband the entire Templar Order, he failed to do more than obtain some small compensation from the Church for his costs in prosecuting the Templars.**


	4. Chapter 4 -- In Avvar Colors

**Latest Prompt Challenge from the Cullenites group, everyone! My own involved Cullen as an Avvar, and I ran straight to the Codex to learn as much about the Avvar as I could to get this one to work. So for those who are not aware, the Avvar have a unique way of approaching courtship. Women are typically kidnapped from neighboring holds to encourage bonds outside the singular family-ties of each particular hold. Some men declare their intentions beforehand, approaching the women beforehand to determine their interest. The warrior who fails in kidnapping his potential bride is generally beaten soundly. If he tries and fails yet again, the hold's spirit beast takes him apart.**

 **So considering that the Inquisitor is pretty much adopted into the Stone-Bear Hold before the end of the Jaws of Haakon dlc, I wondered suddenly how Cullen might react to such an overture from a neighboring Avvar clan.**

 **To clarify, this event occurs right before the Inquisitor approaches Cullen to tell him she's interested. I figured she probably took this as a spur to finally declare herself, hehe. Also, while the original prompt called for Cullen to BE an Avvar, I thought it was more interesting to imagine he'd spent time enough among the Avvar to know and understand their customs very well.**

 **This one is rather short. I just had fun with it, is all.**

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The sun seemed to nearly stretch itself up and over the walls, the rays reaching down towards the ring of men and women who gathered there. It made the morning almost comforting, sent a sweet blast of warmth spreading along the ground. Although the nip of cold was still sharp enough to give the bare skin of the men's chests a stiff tautness, almost dry-looking where they stood facing each other in the center of the training ring. They both huffed out breaths that hung against the air in front of their faces as they circled each other in slow, methodical precision.

Maegin Trevelyan grimaced, her mouth twisting into the palest pink line of firm disapproval. She knew her temper was blatantly obvious to everyone who could see her. Which inspired yet another ruddy splash of red ire over her pale cheeks as she stood there watching the spectacle, herself included. "Apparently the Inquisitor's real value, is a prize worth carrying off by strange men draped in fancy colored paint. Who knew?" She huffed out angrily, "And suddenly! Not one person in Skyhold is willing to pay any attention to my direction."

Beside her, Josephine loosed a slow and heady sigh of deep satisfaction, and she sighed, "Oh, it's so romantic." She didn't look away from the grass ringed with spectators galore, and Leliana – damn her, too! – actually giggled! Shouldn't a spymaster act with more decorum, she wanted to scream! Maker's breath! Maegin was certain even the kitchen staff in its entirety had found reasons enough to gather in the yard and watch the foolishness, everyone in Skyhold spilling out into the courtyard just to see! Because they all needed to be there to witness Maegin reduced to a trophy - some _thing_ to be won and waved over the victor's head. _Complete with prize ribbons_ , she thought, her fingers tightening along the edges of the blanket someone had just enough consideration to drape around her slender frame.

Because there was no time for her to be dressed more appropriately, they all insisted. Oh, no, the show was far more important than Maegin's own pride, obviously. So she stood there, gamely draped in nothing more than a blasted blanket to cover her thin nighttime tunic and leggings. But there was time enough for the men to blazon their own selves with garish stripes of thick paints, mind you. Stupid men and their stupid games!

At least her toes were covered in thick socks. Maegin never managed to sleep if her feet were bare and cold, anyway. So now she wriggled her toes inside plush, woolen socks, tapping one foot angrily against the hard stone landing that overlooked the yard and biting her lip. She'd never imagined such a simple habit, as sleeping with her feet covered so snugly, would end up saving her toes from being frozen to Skyhold's stone stairs, at least. Mostly because she hadn't imagined anyone yanking her from the warm nest of bed she called her own just to cart her off and away from Skyhold.

Maegin dropped her head back to examine the rushing of clouds in the brilliant blue sky overhead. Better that, than to yell at the two men who rushed at each other with such slamming force it sent a near booming sound up into the air. Like two bulls vying over a particular cow, maybe. "What do you think, Josie? Am I at least a _pretty_ cow?"

Josephine slanted Maegin a startled look. The bemusement on her face rather amused Maegin, actually. Maybe because it was so far different than Josephine's normal expression of calm patience in the face of even the most difficult termagants from nearby Orlais. "Cows?"

Maegin nodded sagely, ignoring the men's continued stupidity. Like she was a wizened teacher in the schoolroom tasked to teach a somewhat dim-witted student. "Bovines, Josie! Female beasts sporting horns and hoofs and generally prone to lazily munching on cuds in farmers' fields!" Josephine shook her head, utterly failing to appreciate what Maegin was trying to say. Although the strands of her dark as ink hair stayed quite tidy in a neat bun just over the nape of her neck. Not for the first time Maegin wondered how Jospehine managed to keep her thick hair so presentable regardless of the circumstances. Maegin's own red curls seemed to have some mind of their own, rather flying about her face in crazed mayhem than staying in anything approaching tidiness.

Cheers rose up suddenly, peeling out against the walls of the courtyard in brilliant cacophony. Not that Maegin was truly able to see what so thrilled them, not with the men grappling each other in a muddy pile there on the ground. Who was winning or losing seemed such a muddled proposition when both contenders looked like nothing more than a jumble of painted arms and trouser-covered legs. Although her own champion's blonde-haired head did seem to belong to the contestant perched on top of the wrestling pair of men at the moment.

So that _should_ please her, Maegin supposed, which is all that explained the twisted corner of her mouth. An almost-smile, that's all.

Josephine wondered aloud, still sounding so damned attracted to the entire romanticism of the event Maegin really wanted to smack her suddenly, "I had no notion our Commander was so familiar with Avvar culture and idioms enough to respond so quickly to such provocation, however."

Actually, Maegin had been chewing over the same consideration ever since Cullen came barreling up the stairwell towards the Avvar warrior determinedly hauling her down from her quarters in the darkest hours of the night. He'd looked up at them both like he was an avenging spirit sent straight from the Fade itself to wrestle her free from the jaws of Haakon all on his own, and he bellowed a challenge at the warrior carrying her that bounced up an incredible echo which still rang in Maegin's ears. Then he rushed at them, wrangled the warrior out into the courtyard where he insisted on beating him into a pulp on the ground.

That he was covered in thick ropes of Avvar warpaint the entire time boggled her mind. Until she considered Cullen knew well what the warrior intended and duly prepared himself, rather than warn Maegin herself what was going to happen. She remembered the warrior, of course.

The contingent of Avvar warriors from Fennec-Tooth Hold approached Skyhold bearing trade goods and asking for address to Storvaker, the spirit animal of Stone-Bear Hold that persisted in lolling in the yard where the children of Skyhold enjoyed tossing him treats. Storvaker seemed to ignore the warriors more than anything preferring his own treats than anything they promised or cajoled to him. But the dark-haired Avvar leader who lead them, with his thick ropes of black braided hair dotted with metallic beads and strings of leather – he boldly thumped his chest towards the Inquisitor even more than he did the bear. "I am called Bael Kirksen, Arena Trainer of Fennec-Tooth Hold, and I present myself to you, Inquisitor First-Thaw of Stone-Bear Hold."

Cullen scowled at the man's loud declaration, the way it rose up over the low din that seemed to persist in the main Hall where the nobles from Orlais rubbed elbows with banns from Fereldan so easily. He angrily growled at the Avvar, his gloved fingers tightening on the rounded pommel of his sword, "The Inquisitor is not interested in your name, Avvar. Trust me." But Maegin frowned over at him, dismayed at such churlishness right there in front of so many noble envoys and delegates in Skyhold's hall.

"General, please. There is no need for impoliteness, here. Not today, at least."

Cullen snorted, blinking over at her. "Inquisitor, you don't understand …"

But Maegin waved one of her hands through the air and settled back against the uncomfortable straight-backed chair emblazoned with the Inquisition's mark, "Nonsense. Let the Avvar introduce themselves." Because what harm could it really cause, she thought. Up until the oh-so-honorable Bael Kirksen went ahead and hauled her bodily out of her bed in the dead of night, that is.

Apparently at least, the Inquisition's general wasn't so slow to understand as Maegin herself. Cullen actually barked at her as he prepared to beat and pummel Bael Kirksen right there in the center of the courtyard training circle, pointing sharply at the landing overlooking the yard, "You stand there. Right. There." She fumed back at him, of course. But she didn't move from the position he insisted on, either. Just stood there in her skimpy nightclothes and thick socks, with only a blanket around her to preserve her flailing sense of pride.

Leliana hummed an agreeing sound, "Cullen spent some months among one of the Avvar holdings once, when he was a boy. An agreement between his father and the Avvar thane at the time, I believe. To keep the Bann's holdings secure from Avvar aggression and promote trade between the two groups. Fereldan politics can be so simple at times."

Maegin gaped sideways at her. But Josephine nodded, "The security of the Bann's son became the Thane's responsibility and discouraged the Bann from threatening the Avvar hold at the same time. Very clever of them both." Maegin frowned. Politics of any sort continued to befuddle her. Everything was so much simpler when she was still secured in the Ostwick Circle and directed by others with greater authority.

By now, the men were tiring. It was Cullen's angry jealousy that kept him raging longer, though. He straddled the poor slumped figure of Bael Kirksen splayed out on the ground, and steadily pummeled the man's face with precise blows designed to hurt rather than break him. Maegin frowned confusedly, "He's punishing him."

Leliana nodded. "There's no need to truly destroy the poor fool. He only wanted to court you."

Maegin's eyebrows shot high over her brow as she spun around to look at the spymaster. "Is that what this was all about? This is what counts as Avvar courtship? They manhandle a woman out of her bed and carry her away with them? Are you serious?" Josephine sighed slowly, the sound dripping with dramatic satisfaction, "Oh yes. And our Commander nobly stepped in to defend you from the Avvar's unwanted advances."

Maegin looked back towards the ring of cheering spectators, watching breathlessly as Cullen raised himself up to stand over the nearly unconscious Avvar warrior who waved up at him in surrender from a prone position on the ground. Maegin examined Cullen carefully, at the glistening skin of his bare chest marked with dust and grass, small twigs and some pale, red leaves, all adhered to him with sweat and Avvar warpaint in thick swaths of black and gray stripes. His blonde hair was grime-ridden and muddy-looking, from where Bael Kirksen had slammed his head into the dew-ridden grass they rolled back and forth. But his golden brown eyes were rich and hard with possessive satisfaction as he shot his head around to look up at her.

Maegin felt a thrill course through her and settle in the warmest depths of her female parts, until the silk leggings of her nightclothes felt damp suddenly against her skin. She gasped softly, her pink lips parting softly with arousal. "Maker's breath," she whispered. Beside her, even Josephine and Leliana were quietly awed and stayed blessedly quiet.

Well, if anyone should be making introductions that described their intentions to court someone around here, it was Maegin Trevelyan. She was Inquisitor First-Thaw! And that man down there, all covered in Avvar paint – that was the man she'd be stealing for herself!

Just after she found some fresh socks, that is.


End file.
